Logistics Are Important
by Interiminator
Summary: A drunk Angua bumps into Death, who's got a surprising reason for being there. Part of a versus challenge with mirrorballsymphony.


**For a spontaneous challenge with mirrorballsymphony, we both agreed to write a oneshot to a rather...unconventional prompt. You'll probably be able to guess. I apologise in advance. **

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Corporal Angua wandered aimlessly through the Shades, not knowing where she was going and not particularly wanting to. She could vaguely register that the smell of alcohol on her breath was stronger than she'd like, but at this time of night, the only unsavoury people around could be easily displaced with a flirty smile and a well-placed knee. Both of which she was practiced with.

She could turn around and fumble her way back to Carrot's, maybe. It was their day off, so he'd probably be at home - wait, no. He didn't seem the sort to drink, and one of the few activities he didn't want happening in his apartment would likely be projectile vomiting.

A glimmer of moonlight flashed against her arm as she unsteadily turned the corner. _Wait, is that_ - she hadn't seen anyone around for over an hour, but sure enough, a dark figure was standing rigidly against the wall. Her drunken mind began to race, as if struggling through water.

_Another seamstress. Wait, 'another'? That's it, no more Screaming Orgasms, ever - don't say that out loud, she'll probably get the wrong idea. What am I meant to do? Say hi? "Hello, how's business been?" No, scratch that, they might give details. I'm barely going to sleep tonight anyway. Damn, she's turning around. She's going to think I'm on her turf - or worse, looking for - oh gods -_

But her feet stayed stubbornly planted against the ragged concrete, watching curiously as the figure turned around, black cloak melding and twining with the surrounding shadows. Angua's breath caught in her throat.

Her face...wasn't. On both counts.

"Y-you're..." She staggered backwards, struggling to regain her footing. "No! Not now! You can't!"

Death tilted his skull to watch her as she fell into a heap on the ground, panic etched across her pretty features. THAT'S BECOME A FAMILIAR GREETING, LATELY, he mulled. IT'S BECOME QUITE DISCONCERTING. REALLY, A 'HELLO' WOULD SUFFICE.

"I'm not ready to die!" Angua's eyes were wide and fearful, darting around for an escape she knew was impossible.

OH, SHUT UP.

The terrified light flickered in Angua's eyes, then dulled suddenly to confusion and slight annoyance. "Wait, I'm dead, right?"

WHEN DID THIS SUDDENLY BECOME ALL ABOUT YOU?

"Well, I just figured, most say that you only show up when..." An all-too-familiar surrealistic feeling began to wrap itself over her skin, pinning her to the stone. It was the same feeling she got waking up next to Carrot in the morning, or whenever she was within a few feet of Nobby Nobbs. The feeling that things just couldn't be real - not even in Ankh-Morpork. "I can't be dead."

REALLY? I CAN THINK OF AT LEAST A FEW HUNDRED WAYS. WOULD YOU LIKE THEM ALPHABETISED? ALCOHOL POISONING, ANTEATER, ANVIL...

"But there's nobody around."

I HEARD THE SAME REASONING FROM A MAN LAST WEEK.

"What killed him?"

COLLAPSED BLIMP.

Angua would've rolled her eyes if she didn't consider it a possibly suicidal move. "Fine, there's no blimps around."

THEN YOU'RE PROBABLY NOT DEAD. CONGRATULATIONS. A stunned silence followed. WHAT, DID YOU WANT A PARADE? THIS IS ANKH-MORPORK. I PITY YOU YOUR VITALITY.

"No, I -" The paralysing fear had subsided a little more, but was still there, ice-cold against her spine. "I'm just trying to think of an alternative explanation that doesn't mean I'm insane."

MAYBE I'M JUST A DRUNKEN HALLUCINATION, the figure suggested helpfully, turning slightly so that a blue glimmer caught the light. Angua noticed, but didn't think much of it.

"Nobody gets that drunk," she sighed, feeling another liquor-laced breath circle into the air, like an unsteady wind stream. "If I'm not dead, how come I can see you?"

PEOPLE AT YOUR LEVEL OF INEBRIATION ARE OPEN TO ALL CONCEPTS. MOST NOTABLY DEATH, AND MORE ALCOHOL. THEREFORE YOU CAN SEE ME. FEEL PRIVILEGED.

"No, I mean, why are you here in the first place?"

AH, WELL...Now the skeleton looked decidedly uncomfortable. THAT'S A COMPLICATED ONE. I'M HERE ON...BUSINESS, SHALL WE SAY.

"It's the Shades. What kind of -" Angua's words stuck against her windpipe, so only a slight strangled sound emerged. "No."

I HAVE A CLIENT. THIS IS...RATHER EMBARRASSING.

"You're a..." To her surprise, Angua found herself stifling a laugh. (A scream had felt more appropriate.) "You're..."

IT'S A PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE METHOD OF EMPLOYMENT. HIGH WAGES, FLEXIBLE HOURS. His voice was now clipped, like scalpels swiftly slicing into skin.

"Yes, but..." Angua gulped in lungfuls of air to try and shut herself up. "No, you're right. Good for you. More men should apply for the job."

EQUAL OPPORTUNITY EMPLOYMENT, ONE COULD SAY.

"Absolutely," she assented, realising now that her vision was spinning like a top and she hadn't even noticed. "But aren't there some...logistics issues?"

SUCH AS?

"You're a, er, seamstress."

YES.

"Um."

YES?

"How do you..." _Don't finish that sentence, you might die inside._

AH. WELL, AZRAEL HAS BEEN KIND ENOUGH TO GRANT ME THE ABILITY TO TAKE ON A FORM THAT DEALS WITH A FEW GLARING...MECHANICAL PROBLEMS.

"A human form?"

ALMOST.

Now Angua was certain her cheeks had reddened, and it wasn't just from the cold. "I -"

I WOULDN'T ASK ANY MORE QUESTIONS. TRUST ME.

"Right you are. I should be going. I have...things to do, and I don't want to intrude on your...work."

WOULD THOSE 'THINGS' INCLUDE BLEACHING YOUR MIND WITH MORE ALCOHOL?

"Probably."

FROM WHAT I'VE GLEANED FROM ALBERT, GO FOR ANYTHING VIRULENTLY PINK.

"I plan to."

OH, AND ANGUA?

"Yes, uh, Death?"

LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE.

Angua was starting to wonder whether Nobby had spiked her drink again. He had the strange idea that a hallucinating werewolf would be less likely to maul him, conveniently forgetting that him to a werewolf's stomach would have a marginally worse reaction than one of Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler's new Possibly-Chicken Kebabs. "Which would be what, exactly?"

AT LEAST YOUR BOYFRIEND'S NOT GOING TO DATE ME.

"You have a point."


End file.
